


me revoilà

by Al_D_Baran



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Immortality, Letters, M/M, Not Beta Read, Reincarnation, Temporary Character Death
Language: Français
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28424997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_D_Baran/pseuds/Al_D_Baran
Summary: archived from tumblr. originally posted on 12-01-2013.an immortal man, Francis, finds letters from his lover, arthur.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Kudos: 9





	me revoilà

**Author's Note:**

> yo this is old. didn't even edit because of embarrassment reasons. i was... 17, damn. an entire child.

_All these in his hands, neatly stacked with a too large, almost tearing rubber-band were letters. So much letters, never posted, never opened, some yellowed by age and other looking like they could have been written yesterday, the very day were he had stood a couple of meters away from the funeral processing, getting an harsh glare from Alfred. His throat was so tight now, all he could do was watch in a odd kind of awe. This time there was something for him, this time he didn’t came just to hug some cold tombstone with a name he had loved since the dawn of his old days._

_Francis looked at the letters, recognizing Arthur at how they were in order of year, all written on the side of the envelopes. He smelled them, breathed in the scent of tea, almost being able of feeling a skin that wasn’t paper-like. Somewhere in his foggy mind, the Immortal just tore that paper away from the first one, feverishly needing this odd, ghostly contact with his long lost, so far, so near–still so far now, yet again–lover._

**_Date: 15 July, 1959._ **

I waited again today. Five years. I remember that day, you told me you’d probably have a hard time remembering everything. Not that you’d forget, but things would be blurry for you, since times flies so fast for you. You don’t know when you’ll be here, you don’t know when you’re going; how much time it’ll take you to get here. All you know is that you’re coming.

Somehow, to my surprise, I came to love your lack of punctuality.

It was yet another proof that you were who you were. Going through ages, chasing after me, as you said. You say the cycle of the Eternals and Immortals is more of a pain than anything, a heartache you’ve come to be addicted to. I don’t know what in me could ever get you addicted. Am I not always screaming at you ? There’s nothing as charming as you say about me. You can’t find words to say if not that god-damned mischief-filled “Your eyebrows, _mon amour_. Your eyebrows. They are you, and you are them. Something around that. Don’t ask of love to tell you why it is so, it only wants to make you suffer and you only want it to succeed.”

Something about you is addictive too.

Love, Arthur.

PS: Happy Birthday. I’d leave you a present, but you’d be finding something bad about it and a way to be complaining about. So put it up your arse.

PPS: Still love you even if you’re an arse.

_**Date: 15 July, 1963.** _

I think you already know too much that I loved your late, very late visit. It was nice to go back strolling around, even though government seemed to look closely at us again. I wonder what would they want to you… it’s been almost eleven years since we met on my twenty-third birthday and you still look the same. Mysterious, frivolous young man. Now it’s your turn to be the youngest of us.

Not that I mind. Things aren’t about that any more. I grew up, and I lied to Angelique that we were just going fishing or some other stupidities. I didn’t care when it meant I’d have you close to me in an hotel in the next town that was far enough for her not to suspect anything. I bet you could tell she was witty enough to doubt us if we weren’t careful.

Or not, since I wasn’t out of the parking lot that you’d be all over me, looking just as beautiful as ever. You made me feel like a young man again, like laughing was the most important thing we’d get to have. I didn’t care the next kilometers, I think I barely made it to the first halt that seemed crappy enough to be ignored by the other drivers and I just answered to all your advances. You’re made of something addictive and delicious. I think there isn’t a night I think about you, by now.

And maybe Angelique knows. But that’s not the first of my problems.

You were supposed to come back for a quick time last year. So I waited again. And I waited, even outside in the rain. Cause if you’d come, then, you’d be happy. We’d look like Hollywood, you’ve always liked them, didn’t you ?

Love always, Arthur.

PS: I cooked a cake, and it burned. My wife screamed at me.

PPS: I blame you for my burned hand, jerk.

PPPS: Happy birthday.

_**Date: 15 July, 67.** _

It wasn’t needed of you to pay for a lifetime apartment in London’s centre just because you felt guilty of ruining my marriage–even though it did was your fault. It wasn’t necessary to take me out to see this new punk group either–and I almost looked like I could have been your dad or something worst. And now you’ll think I'm exaggerating -don’t think I can’t read you as well as you do for me. It’s easier to read you after… when I can calmly think about you.

I never go far from the large window that show the Sleeve. Maybe you’ll come from here on a boat, coming back from France, coming back as I’ve been waiting all these years for you because this damn research programs has proven to actually exist. I can’t fucking believe it.

And I’m sorry for Antonio. I’m sorry I yelled at you then. It was insensitive… and I regret it so much. He was your best friend, and the best I do when he’s captured and the next thing you seem to learn is his death–when Immortals can’t die, right ? Tell me, tell me you won’t, Francis.

Always yours, Arthur.

PS: I bought a cake this year. I almost expected it to eat it alone.

PPS: And that’s why you had a blowjob. Not anything else.

_**Date: 15 July 1970.** _

It’s been a while since you came, now. Last time you were up to your good old promise: “Wait for me, _ma Arthur_ ! I will come for you ! Every day after my birthday, I will !” I hope very well you can see the sarcasm in this quote of you. Since you were only up to it once. That’s so like you that all I can do now, it’s smile at it, because you’re very well the last thing I have in my damn life. I’d wish to tell you face to face, but I didn’t even glimpse you in three years.

They told me this year may be my last. Don’t look surprised while reading this… it’s not like it wasn’t bound to happen. I’m just a mortal, and you’re Immortal. We’ll meet again the next cycle. You look surprised again, don’t you ? You did a damn good job hiding such a thing from me. Hiding how we met a thousand of time, and how a thousand of times, I fell in love with you. How could it always be you ? How could you still fall for me even though you knew I’d die, inevitably ?

I know it’s also your fault–or more like the cycle’s fault that I’m having this lightning sickness. I know it. Don’t feel bad for it… it was bound to happen, has such things already happened a million of time already. 

I love you, Arthur.

PS: This time, I wrote you a poem.

PPS: I burned it. It wasn’t good enough for you.

_Francis could feel himself tremble, feeling all the numbness of his innumerable years fade away as tears freely rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t care to wipe them, all he knew was that he had escaped all these damn spies, huntsmen, whatever he could think of… for that ? To come back, come back again to an empty house, and find it just as empty as he’d be ? Sobs escaped him. He raged, smashed all of the sheets of paper on the ground with a wail of agony._

_And then, a tinier one, which seemed to be nothing but a post-it. A pink little thing on which the glue had dried on. He caught it, rubbing his eyes to read the words:_

_**15 July 72.** _

Find me again, I’ll wait for you, always. Arthur.

_And Francis smiled, nodding at the simple words._

_Because he couldn’t find a damn one better than these, he couldn’t think of any thing better than just a nod._

**15 July, 2009.**

A man carrying a large stash of worn out letters, joined by a silk rubban walked over Arthur and Alfred, who looked at the rather handsome–but that he wasn’t going to say out loud–man with some kind of hateful glare. There was something about this man’s eyes who made Arthur freeze. As if something was there, but he couldn’t grasp it.

And even if he didn’t have a clue why, the smile he had felt the warmest he ever had. 

The man smiled, running a hand through his long blond hair, winking at Arthur as he approached, “Oh, is this place taken ? Because I’d need someone to show me around London and you seemed like a knowing guide ! I am Francis, and how about you, sir ?”

_Me revoilà._

**Author's Note:**

> kudos if you care, comment if you dare.


End file.
